


The Silences Between

by Vrazdova



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Character Study, Copious Amounts of Wine, Developing Relationship, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrazdova/pseuds/Vrazdova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young king buries himself in his work. A chance meeting proves a much-needed distraction. A stranger becomes a companion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silences Between

**Author's Note:**

> For the [2014 Kiss Battle](http://ff-exchange.dreamwidth.org/47675.html)!
> 
> Thanks to [deadcellredux](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/pseuds/deadcellredux) for beta/feedback along the way!

The lamp’s flame made one last dying gasp before extinguishing into a ribbon of smoke, throwing the polished desk beneath it into shadow. Edgar sighed, dropping his pen and leaning back to rub at his eyes. He had spent far too many late nights like this lately: hunched over a stack of papers all demanding his immediate attention like a brood of noisy children. How urgent _really_ was this chocobo stable tax proposal? So there were fires in the eastern quarter of South Figaro — it was the dry season; this happened _every year_. Why did every minute action require a twenty-page legal document?

He understood the necessity, of course, but there were some evenings when it took the force of his entire will to keep himself from sweeping the contents of his desk to the floor.

Edgar reached for the servants' bell to call for more lamp oil just as there was a knock at his door. He clenched his teeth. The list of reasons why he should be disturbed tonight was exceptionally short, and his temper threatened to prove even shorter.

"Come in," he called, not masking the annoyance in his voice.

"S-so sorry to disturb you, my liege," stammered the guard. The pins on his jacket indicated that he was stationed in the dungeons — a job for both the toughest military graduates as well as impressionable new recruits. Clearly, this young man was of the latter category. "We intercepted a suspicious man trespassing in the castle vaults. But upon his arrest, he insisted that he had an urgent message for the king. He showed us this brass piece." The guard handed over an ancient bangle. Edgar raised an eyebrow as he rubbed his thumb over the embossed surface. "He said you would know what it meant; that it bears the seal of Tsar Grigor of Jidoor and that he must address you about the Orichalcum trade policy at once."

Edgar's lips formed a tight line as he considered the flush-cheeked guard at his door. The minimum age for recruitment at the castle was sixteen, and he looked barely that. His voice had wavered slightly as he'd delivered his message, and as he stood in anticipation of the king's response, he shifted his weight between legs nervously.

"He said all of this? To you, directly?"

"Yes, my liege."

Edgar broke his stern expression with a smirk. "And what, exactly, was a Jidoorian ambassador doing in our vaults?"

The guard faltered. "He... said he was lost. He had gone looking for-for an outhouse on his way to your chambers… Captain Harren said he’d hold the man while I went to tell you."

Edgar's nostrils flared as he suppressed a laugh. The poor kid. At least the old guards had moved away from the more physically-humiliating forms of hazing. Still, daring to approach the king personally during a week when he had put out explicit orders not to even bring _meals_ unless specifically called for required a — _hefty pair of balls_ , as they would've put it downstairs.

He threw a sideways glance at the mountainous to-do pile still on his desk and decided this distraction was a sign that he should give his brain a break for the night. What was the harm in a little absurdity?

"Yes, send in the representative from Jidoor," Edgar declared very seriously. "I must discuss with him these matters of utmost importance immediately."

* * *

The door clicked shut behind the stranger, who held no such air as to even remotely pass as a political ambassador, much less a native to any lands south of Figaro. Edgar gestured for him to take the open chair opposite him, and the garishly-dressed young man sat down without a word.

"So glad you could finally make it; I've been on Grigor's ass about the Orichalcum issue for weeks now," said Edgar, shuffling through a stack of papers. "Let's get right to business — what was his proposal? Is he looking to start up a refinery locally or overseas? What about smiths? Does he have the resources to train his own or are we going to have to work out a deal with Narshe as well?"

"Uh..." the stranger began, shifting uneasily in his seat. "Well, he was, um… interested in the idea of overseas... relations, because—"

Edgar looked up from the paper he was furiously scribbling notes onto, expression shaped into one of exaggerated interest.

"Go on; this is fascinating," he goaded. "And when we're done with these pressing matters, I'd love to hear about how a thief from Kajal territory landed an elite position with a Jidoorian Tsar."

At this, the stranger simply smiled and shrugged. "Crazy, isn't it? I still wonder that myself sometimes." And he swiftly got up to leave.

"The door is locked. And while I have no doubt you could easily escape, I insist you stay a little while longer, lest I decide to make a public statement with your trial and execution for trespassing and attempted theft of royal artifacts."

The color drained from his face, and he slowly sat back down. He said, his voice grave, "If there's anything about this you _should_ believe, it's that I wasn't actually going to take anything. I swear I was just looking."

"Window shopping in the royal vaults? That's a bit weak, after all the other creativity you've exhibited this evening."

The would-be thief reached up and unhooked a pin from one of the colorful scarves tied around his head. He held it out to Edgar, who accepted and examined it. It was a simple gold brooch, shaped like a tiger in profile with a tiny emerald for an eye.

"I found this while exploring down in the southern Figaro territory, in the Sabre Mountains somewhere," he explained, waving off the details. "It was in a small box that looked like it had only been buried for a few years. I cleaned it up and asked around," again, notably hurrying over certain points, "and discovered that it was an old Figaro royal family symbol. I wanted to see if I could find anything that matched, here. Just to satisfy my curiosity. I don't _steal_ things that are obviously accounted for; I... search for lost treasures."

Edgar eyed him carefully, running the pin through his fingers. "Well, if you were merely hoping for confirmation of this symbol's status, you are most fortunate to find yourself in audience with the King of Figaro, aren't you?"

The young man let out a quiet, nervous laugh.

"What is your name?"

"Locke. Cole. Of Kohlingen," he said, his voice growing increasingly flustered with each hasty addendum.

Edgar handed back the pin. "This is indeed an ancient family symbol, but not exactly a royal one. The emerald-eyed tiger represents my mother's lineage. Had you more time to explore our vaults, you would have certainly found this pin's relations."

Locke hesitated with the jewelry in his open hand, clearly apprehensive about pocketing it again in front of the king.

"This has proved to be an interesting meeting, Locke," Edgar continued, relaxing into a more casual position, "considering I was merely humoring a naïve guard by letting you up here. You should be rotting away in our dungeons right now." He paused to watch Locke’s reaction — delightfully squirmy — before leaning forward to close Locke's fingers around the pin. "But I'm going to let you go, because I want you to put that tiger back where you found it, box and all. I don't believe this treasure was quite as lost as it appeared — and one day its absence will be noticed, and mourned."

Locke nodded cautiously, finally conceding to tuck the brooch safely into a pouch on his belt, hidden beneath layers of sashes and scarves. He then stood, his posture far straighter than when he'd entered.

"Next time you have a question about Figarian artifacts, try _asking_ first instead of skulking around a castle full of armed guards. I would like to promise that most of them aren't quite so gullible, or can at the very least detect a poor imitation of a Jidoorian accent." Edgar winked as he strode across the room to open the door.

"Sure thing..." Locke cracked a grin, but halted before taking his leave, turning back to face the king. "Oh, can I get my Ward Bangle back? The, uh..."

"Ah yes, the one bearing the _royal seal of Tsar Grigor_." At this, Locke joined him in a laugh. "I suppose I should also place a higher priority on the guards' education in current politics, hm? What an embarrassing representation of my kingdom." Edgar tossed over the charm.

"Your secret's safe with me," said Locke, pulling it over his hand and shaking his wrist to set it comfortably.

Edgar snorted. "Come by again sometime, Locke. This was a curiously refreshing distraction. I'm sure I will need another in the coming weeks."

"A-all right," Locke agreed, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "See you later then... Highness." Then with a casual wave over his shoulder, he took off down the hall.

This Locke was a strange, yet charming mix of sort-of-knowing and not-really-caring how to conduct himself around royalty, Edgar mused as the door clicked shut. After interacting day-in and day-out with none but stuffy politicians, shy servants and nervous guards, he found his spirits considerably lifted thanks to this chance encounter with an outsider nearly too bold for his own good. He wasn't about to hold his breath on the expectation that Locke would actually return — people like him didn't tend to keep promises, much less appointments — but this hour of relief he’d unwittingly provided did not go unappreciated.

Edgar paused to take in the silence that settled around the room and his eyes fell back upon the stack of unread papers on his desk. A rush of disappointment escaped his lips as reality set back in. Time to refill the lamp and get back to work.

* * *

_Brother,_

_Great to hear from you! Yes, I’ve been well; things are slowing down as winter approaches. The weather has been good this month, which has allowed us to sufficiently stock firewood and food to keep us till spring. Duncan is finally giving us a little break this week since we’re so ahead of schedule. On the one hand, it’s nice to relax — on the other, I don’t really know what to do with myself! So I get what you mean about keeping busy._

_I hadn’t thought about mom’s pin in a long time, but since you mentioned it, I took it out and meditated over it for a while. I know you don’t believe in such things, but it definitely carries a vibrant energy! It actually looked like it had been recently polished, even though it’s been tucked away for years now. Maybe it’s nothing, but I like to think of it as a sign of positivity for the future. Thanks for the inspiration._

_I still hope to visit sometime, but as always, Duncan runs a tight ship, so I can never be sure when I’ll get the chance._

_Love,_

_Sabin_

* * *

Edgar set down the letter and poured himself a small glass of wine. Leaning back in a faded chaise-longue, he wondered if he should feel guilty about having never made an effort to visit his brother in all these years. At first, it was because he had wanted to give Sabin his space — and indeed, he hadn’t even known exactly where Sabin had ended up until his first letter arrived well over a year after his departure from Figaro. The next excuse was doubt — perhaps Sabin wouldn’t _want_ to see him just yet; he was building a new ascetic life for himself, and a visit from a king might be an unwelcome distraction. As time went on, their correspondence waned, and Edgar began to consider the possibility that he might no longer recognize his twin — or worse, that Sabin wouldn’t recognize _him_. Having parted ways six years ago, they had now missed out on nearly a quarter of each other’s lives. Edgar could juggle the responsibilities of ruling a kingdom with finesse, but the thought of finding his dear brother, once his near-mirror image, completely transformed — if even for the better — was incomparably intimidating. So he accepted the next excuse that freely entered his mind: he was simply too busy to visit just yet. It seemed that Sabin was, too.

A staccato _knock knock knock_ freed him from these thoughts, and he opened the door to find a castle guard standing at attention.

“My liege,” said the young man, relaxing as Edgar skeptically nodded him in.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” Edgar frowned, looking the guard up and down. “Where is your post?”

“Southwestern tower, my liege. I’ve come to report an unusually high concentration of malicious sand rays in the barracks. The men are being smothered in their sleep.”

With one finger, Edgar tilted the guard’s helmet away from his face.

“Thank you for the report, Lieutenant Cole. I will address the issue immediately after I discover why it is you’ve broken into my castle a second time, and whose uniform did you steal.”

Locke grinned and removed the helmet, scarf tails cascading down his shoulder like a sheet of silk hair. “The answer to your first question is that you invited me to come back sometime, so here I am. I just prefer to avoid all the fanfare of the front entrance. And the second —” He quickly unbuttoned the outer tunic and shimmied it down his arms, swirling it around to look at the collar tag. “I need to return this to a…  Durante, I guess. I’m sure he’s not missing it; he was heading to the pub for the evening.”

“So you’re a seeker of lost treasures, but also the occasional inattentive guard’s uniform.” Edgar leaned his shoulder against a stone column and folded his arms. “Interesting repertoire.”

“I know an opportunity when I see one,” Locke shrugged.

“Mm. You don’t appear to be seeing the enormous risk you’re taking, however, by messing with a _king_. I did invite you to visit, but at least in polite societies, this implies that an appointment should be made to schedule the occasion. I am very busy, you know.” It was as much a warning to Locke as it was an assertion to himself.

Locke’s eyes flitted to the open bottle of wine. “I can see that…”

Edgar sniffed and made great ceremony of swishing his finely-embroidered cape as he reclaimed his place on the chaise-longue. “If you’ve merely come here to mock me, I will not hesitate to throw you in the dungeons and be done with you — but that would be the less satisfactory outcome for all parties, wouldn’t it? If you would like to get back on my good side, Locke Cole, sit down and tell me about yourself, so that at the very least I may have some fuel with which to sass you back.” He retrieved a second glass from the drink tray on the bay windowsill and offered his unlikely guest a splash of wine. Locke accepted it eagerly and settled into a plush armchair nearby.

“I can play storyteller, no problem.” Locke swirled the burgundy liquid around the glass bowl, but sipped without bothering to savor its perfume. “Where do you want me to start?”

“With this treasure hunting business of yours. What do you look for, how do you find it, what happens afterward — and so forth. I want to know how you occupy your time when you’re not infiltrating high-security fortresses.”

Locke smiled into a sigh, relaxing his position and continuing to swirl his wine absently. “Well,” he began, looking off to the side as though to find a script hanging somewhere in the room, “It started as vague interest in travel — in my free time, I would set out from home and see how far I could get before I had to be back at work a few days later. When I’d reached as far as I could in every direction, I began exploring closer areas in more depth. There are a lot of old crags and valleys and caves within a day’s ride of Kohlingen, and when I started to _find_ things — that’s when it really took off as a hobby.”

Edgar gave a slow nod, closing his eyes as he listened.

“A lot of old coins, a piece of pottery or jewelry here and there — all these things that had gone untouched for ages — I found it all fascinating. After I’d collected a handful of items, I took them to an appraiser in Syral — that’s a small village about thirty miles south of Kohlingen. There’s an old man who retired there from the capital of Jidoor.” He paused to take a sip. “Of course, some of it turned out to be junk, but the coins at least were very old, he’d said. He couldn’t tell me their exact value, but said there were a number of collectors further south who would be very interested in buying them from me. He advised I clean them and do some further research before approaching any of the collectors. I eventually took my first extended journey down to Jidoor Kingdom.”

“Where you were immediately recruited into the service of the Tsar, and picked up that impeccable Jidoorian accent,” Edgar grinned, offering more wine.

Locke chuckled. “Oh, yeah. To be honest, that job turned out to be kind of drag — Tsar Grigor having been dead for sixty years and all — so I sold my coins as planned and headed home. Kept that _royal bangle_ as a souvenir.”

It was such a simple thing — the way Locke would pick up on Edgar’s teasing and continue to play the joke with ease — that it took a moment for Edgar to realize that this was, in fact, the key to Locke’s charm. No one else would _joke_ with the king — for fear of offending him or otherwise, no doubt — but to anyone else in the castle, gentle sarcasm of the sort would elicit merely a tittering, nervous laughter at best (or a blank stare at worst, generally from the elder advisors). It was difficult to find intimacy when everyone knew you had the power to dismiss or imprison them or _worse_ on a whim. Never mind that Edgar had not once treated a subject’s life with such frivolity; the tension always remained. He had nearly resigned himself to a fate where he could call none other than his childhood Matron his closest friend until, over the course of this strange evening, he began to see the sparks of a something potentially special.

Edgar watched Locke carefully as he continued to tell his story. Once past the exposition, he went on to recount tales of fearsome caverns, breathless sights, close encounters with wild beasts. There was the discovery of a cursed ring that had nearly struck him dead on the spot, and which required the help of a passing stranger to remove it from his finger. Then followed the sudden rockslide in the Andur Mountains that awakened an angry harpy just as he’d strayed too close to her nest. He grew animated as he spoke, suddenly bolting forward in his seat, arms waving about to illustrate one exciting point or another — and then his voice lilted dreamily as he remembered aloud the first time he’d seen both the ocean and the desert at the same time, from the summit of peak northeast of his hometown.

Whether or not all of his tales were entirely true, Edgar found himself wholly rapt in the adventure. He himself had traveled plenty — but only via safe, official roads, mainly between capital cities and always with an entourage in tow. The only view he’d ever had of the mountains was through the windows of high-speed trains, which, while certainly beautiful, surely did not compare to the experience of hiking en plein air.

It was apparent that they had both lost track of time when the midnight gong of the clock startled them out of their shared reverie. Locke let out an unapologetic yawn and scratched at the back of his neck as he made his way to leave.

“Guess I should get this uniform back to Durante before he gets in trouble,” he said, his voice by now a bit hoarse.

Edgar chuckled. “There are plenty of guest rooms available if you wish to spend the night, once you reclaim your rightful clothing.”

But Locke shook his head. “I’ll grab a chocobo and be on my way — those of us outside the politer societies make appointments too sometimes, you know. I’ve gotta meet someone in South Figaro in three days or I’ll be stuck hauling this bronze statuette around for another month. Appreciate it though. I’m sure I’ll regret turning down a royal mattress when I’m eating dirt in my sleep later.”

“Well, this was again a pleasant surprise, Locke. I hope you’ll continue to visit on occasion. Feel free, however, to spare my poor guards your tricks next time.” Edgar tossed Durante’s helmet to Locke and made to open the door.

“I’ll give them a break, but you should be thanking me for sussing out these holes in your security.” Locke tucked his scarves and other ornamentations under the cloth flaps of the helmet. “I could be added to the payroll for this.”

“You will continue to be paid in wine and hors d’oeuvres for your company, but I advise you to steer clear of those who wield swords in my castle from now on.” He placed a hand on Locke’s shoulder to guide him to the exit.

“Yes, Highness,” grinned Locke.

“For the gods’ sakes, call me Edgar. If you’re going to turn up in my study unannounced you may as well be consistently familiar.”

To this, Locke responded with only a raised eyebrow and quirk of his lips before marching away toward the stairs.

* * *

It was exactly one week later that an ominous question crossed Edgar’s mind: should he be more suspicious of Locke? It was almost alarming that he _hadn’t_ really thought to question the young man’s motives thus far, but then, work had been leaving little room for stray thoughts these days. Their introduction had been the product of pure chance — even now, Edgar couldn’t quite explain what had inspired him to allow a foreigner caught trespassing in the vaults into his chambers that afternoon two months before. But something had been said in today’s meeting with Gestahl’s representative — some passing comment about _eyes and ears where one least expects them_ — that he couldn’t simply brush off.

Then again, this man the Emperor had recently begun sending in his stead, Kefka Palazzo… he was an eccentric one, to say the least. He lightened his skin and adorned his uniform with frills that no self-respecting leader should ever allow his representatives to wear. Today, his lips and nails had been painted red — another blatant breach of military code in every leading nation in the _world_. It was becoming more and more difficult to maintain the guise of taking Gestahl’s Empire seriously.

Still, Palazzo had a knack for leaving him unsettled after their meetings. The juxtaposition of his flamboyancy with intense political discussion always threw Edgar off-guard, which was likely intentional. After today, it only inspired him to be more cautious in the future.

So where did Locke fit in? He hadn’t shown any particular political motivations so far. But he was _clever_ , and that was dangerous. Despite his garish appearance, he had the ability to blend into any crowd, it seemed, and he could probably talk his way out of murder. By now, he had undoubtedly explored all of Figaro Castle unsupervised, and Edgar knew it was because he’d been so charmed that he hadn’t done anything to prevent it. If it was revealed in time that Locke was, in fact, a spy, Figaro would be in a world of trouble — and Edgar would only have himself to blame.

He gritted his teeth. He would have to vet his guest more carefully at their next encounter.

* * *

The opportunity did not arise for several more weeks, in which time Edgar’s bout of paranoia did somewhat subside. If Locke had any malicious intent, he was certainly going for the long grift, as it became nearly two months before he appeared within Edgar’s domain for a third time. Edgar had just retired to what he called the Oasis — a small, private courtyard lush with plants imported from greener lands — when he heard a faint clink of the iron gate.

“This is nice… breaks up the monotony of the desert.” Edgar opened an eye to find Locke examining a citrus tree. “Reminds me of the coastal region of Kohlingen — which I always liked best. Too far south and the plants get all sharp and spiny. Harder to tell which ones are safe to eat, too. Did I tell you yet about the time I drank poisonous cactus milk?”

“If your visits were more frequent, perhaps you would remember which stories you’ve already told.”

Locke gave a sly smile. “You missed me.”

To this, a shrug. “I’ve been so occupied I barely had time to notice. But since you’re here — _welcome_.” A sweeping gesture before leaning back and crossing his legs.

Yet beneath his cool exterior, Edgar felt a spark of delight. The thought of another evening spent transported to different corners of the world through an uncouth travelers’ tales excited him to a degree that nearly made him feel foolish. He was a king with countless forms of entertainment at his disposal — why fixate on these random encounters with a possible spy?

Perhaps it was precisely this element of uncertainty that appealed to him. Like the Oasis, Locke too, in a way, interrupted the monotony of the desert.

“Can I offer you refreshments?”

“Yes _please_ ,” Locke leaned forward eagerly. “I’m starving.”

* * *

The air cooled rapidly as the sun set, for which Edgar’s silk chemise was not well suited. After a few absent strokes of his arms, he made a motion to move the party indoors — and Locke agreed, but not before putting up a hand to stop him.

“The sky is totally clear tonight,” he said, eyes drawing upwards. “Perfect for stargazing. That’s one thing I love about the desert — so many cloudless night skies. They’re a rarity in other parts of the world.”

Edgar paused, and he looked in curiosity not at the sky but at Locke — and he had to wonder, honestly, if someone intent on eventually betraying his trust could speak so dreamily of the stars.

“We could return to the open air with warmer clothing once it darkens,” he found himself saying, and took pleasure in watching the corners of Locke’s lips pull up into a smile. “In the meantime, there is more food and drink to be found inside.”

* * *

“You speak of Kohlingen as though it is no longer your home,” Edgar noted, refilling Locke’s glass. By this hour, they had drained two dusty bottles of red, and Edgar had shooed away four advisors requesting audience. Didn’t _they_ have friends and families to attend to? Why did everyone insist on working so late this evening?

Locke’s expression instantly shifted; brow slightly furrowed, lips tight. Edgar had expected this to be a sore subject: while Locke was never short on tales of grand adventure, his stories always stopped just shy of the journey home. It was intentional, and by now it was glaringly obvious. And Edgar wanted to know what would happen if he pressed this delicate matter. He’d learned so much about this young man in their meetings, and yet he was still, in certain ways, a complete mystery.

The politer side of him was tempted to apologize for the intrusion, but Edgar bit his tongue in anticipation of Locke’s reaction.

“I love that city,” Locke confessed, staring into his glass. “But I’m not welcome there anymore.”

* * *

Ah, the tragedy! The injury, the guilt, the betrayal — the _girl_. It became clearer by the second just how calculated was Locke’s presentation as his outer layers began to melt away. Beneath the jewels and brocades, behind the smooth grins and hero-charisma — was someone desperately trying to convey to the world that he was not, in fact, a prisoner of his own past. Edgar was at once enthralled and sympathetic as Locke recalled, tongue loosened by wine, the look of absolute rejection in _her_ eyes as _she_ declared him unknown, and unwelcome in her home.

So rapt he was that he did not immediately register the significance of the venom with which Locke spat the Emperor’s name, revealing that his beloved’s tragic story had come to its end by the blade of a nameless Imperial footsoldier. Only when he saw Locke’s eyes widen, mouth slackened in shock at his own words, did Edgar understand his trespass. Locke had strayed into dangerous political territory, and the fear of retribution — of a sudden curtain-fall about the small stage of trust they had so recently built — burned like a slap across his face. Edgar’s expression in return was grave, but he nodded slowly, thinking carefully on his response. At last, he hoped to quell the tension by reciting a poignant stanza from one of his favorite poems, which served as both a reassurance and a tribute. He was relieved to find his friend quite moved by the gesture.

In the silence that followed, Edgar absently ran a finger over the lacquered letter-box on his desk, his thoughts wandering back along the winding trails of the evening’s conversation as old anxiety roiled in his belly. His correspondence with Sabin had dwindled over the years, and each subsequent letter became shorter and less intimate than the last. He didn’t have to strain his imagination to understand the fear of facing a loved one and seeing a stranger. The thought had already crossed his mind countless times over.

Whether due to a sense of obligation (it was only fair, after having lit the fire under Locke’s seat) or a sudden need to voice these troubles for the first time, Edgar soon found himself exposing his own dark secrets: the burden of his birthright; the exhausted, sleepless nights; the loneliness that plagues a public figure. Yet he remained self-conscious as he spoke — what were the troubles of a king but pretenses to a commoner, after all — and the only thing that maintained his momentum was the flow of alcohol. Another bottle was quickly pushed aside, empty.

But if their differences in class still held any bearing on Locke’s opinion of Edgar, he didn’t show it. As Edgar’s story slowed to a halt, Locke leaned forward and simply clinked their glasses together; a gesture of solidarity between two souls with freshly-reopened wounds. And then they sat, wordless and heavy-lidded, the warmth of the fireplace amplifying the wine’s lullaby, until they both began to doze off in their chairs.

In the early hours of the morning, Edgar awoke to find a light blanket draped over his lap, and the seat opposite him empty.

* * *

A dull, nagging pain had been lingering over Edgar’s left eye all day. He pressed two fingers into his brow, hoping to massage it away, even knowing that it was a futile effort. The annual trade meeting with Nikeah’s governors was unbearably tedious. Their lawyers were crafty and ruthless, and they always managed to slip some ridiculous term or another into the renewal agreements. And so the cycle repeated every year: Edgar and his own team spent three solid days and nights doing nothing but combing through mountains of legal jargon, and then the rest of the week was inevitably dedicated to contesting their findings with their guests from the North. It was excruciating, and the only reason they put up with it year after year was because Nikeah was Figaro’s largest source of trade revenue.

The temptation to settle things through physical force grew nearly overwhelming at times. And while this would be grossly against Figaro’s foreign policy, and a terrible idea even if it _wasn’t_ — history showed that Nikeah fought dirty when it came to war — Edgar couldn’t help but think about how satisfying it would be to corner one of those damned lawyers and force this stack of papers down his throat.

The pressure was getting the better of him this day; the normally-graceful king quite slammed his study door open as he retreated for a moment of much-needed peace. The meetings were to recommence in just over an hour, and he required silence and privacy to calm his rage.

But the crash of the closing door caused some unexpected movement at the far end of the room: Locke visibly startled in his seat at Edgar’s desk. Then with a relieved heave of his chest, the visitor flashed a smile and waved.

Edger exhaled through his nose. “Locke, I…” He was finding difficulty in keeping a diplomatic tone. “This is rather unfortunate timing. I have been drowning in work for days now and have only stopped in here for a brief reprieve. I cannot entertain you at the moment.” He walked over to the bay window while unfastening his cape and threw himself onto the reliable old chaise-longue. As he rested his eyes, unmoving, he could feel Locke’s gaze upon him.

“I can be quiet… or I could leave,” Locke offered, his voice more hesitant than usual. Edgar could hear the rustling turn of a page. A minute passed before he responded.

“No, it’s… fine.”

But he wasn’t sure _why_ it was fine. He’d wanted to be _alone_ , and of all the days for Locke to show up unannounced…

Maybe there was something to deliberately _sharing a silence_. Edgar found himself intrigued by the thought.

“Stay.”

The invitation was met with another soft crinkle of paper as Locke continued rifling through his book.

Edgar’s thoughts began to drift into dreams, the sound of each turning page morphing into a crashing wave. The desert outside his windows shifted from sand to sea, and he was no longer a king but a captain, sailing lazily into the horizon. He turned to his first mate at the helm, squinting into the sun.

“How long till Nikeah?” he called, putting a hand to his brow.

“Less than an hour,” came the first mate’s response.

Edgar glanced back out over the rail and saw nothing but endless ocean in every direction. “This will be the longest hour I’ve ever lived,” he muttered with a shake of his head.

As they continued on toward an invisible city, the ship’s gentle bobbing grew steadily more pronounced. Edgar’s hands ached as he gripped the rail for balance, but it was only once the ship teetered to vertigo-inducing angles that the panic began to set in. He searched frantically for his first mate, all while holding on for dear life as the ship had nearly turned completely on its port side.

“Cole!” he shouted into the din of waves. “I’m going to fall!”

“I got it!” Locke called back. He hefted the wheel clockwise, and with another sickening lurch, the ship righted itself. Salt water sprayed onto the deck, cooling the hot tar underfoot and soaking Edgar’s clothing.

“Close call with one of the Empire’s ships,” said Locke, pointing at a dark shadow under the surface that skittered away from them like vermin. “Just narrowly avoided a head-on collision.”

“They were on a suicide mission?” Edgar wiped wet locks of hair out of his eyes and tried to locate the sub-surface vessel, but it had already escaped his view.

“Gestahl is ruthless. So are his soldiers. You _always_ have to keep one eye out for them… tch!” Locke pounded the helm with a glower. “They’ve knocked us way off course!”

“It’s okay,” Edgar could hear himself say, though his voice was distant. “Nikeah can wait…”

A gentle touch on his shoulder caused the ship and the ocean and his sea-soaked cape all to fade into darkness — but when he opened his eyes, he found that Locke was still close by.

“Hey,” his friend said quietly. “You’d… mentioned you only had about an hour before you had to get back to work…”

With a sigh and a faint smile, Edgar relaxed back into the chaise-longue. “I suppose Nikeah _can’t_ wait after all… shame, isn’t it.” He turned toward Locke and thought he could read something like _expectation_ in his expression, but Locke merely waited in silence for his next move. Why _was_ he here? Why was he content to simply watch the king sleep?

Edgar sat up and swung his feet to the floor, bringing himself now eye to eye with Locke. "Thank you for looking out for me," he said, and then he did something curious — or at least, out of curiosity: he leaned forward and lightly kissed the corner of Locke's mouth. And in response, Locke turned his head so that his lips brushed against Edgar's, inviting him in for a second, proper kiss — an opportunity which he gladly took.

But there they stopped and pulled apart, gentle smiles upon Edgar's lips and within Locke's eyes as they regarded each other for a moment — Edgar wondering what thoughts now dominated Locke's mind, and perhaps, Locke contemplating the same of him.

The clock's chime came as an unwelcome reminder of the king's evening appointment, however, and with a wink, Edgar stood to retrieve his cape. As he nimbly fastened it to his epaulets and tidied his hair, he watched Locke return to the desk and settle back into its seat.

"What are you reading?" He asked, glancing over Locke's shoulder. He had several dusty tomes from Edgar's shelves spread out before him.

"History of the War of the Magi. I was flipping through the old maps and discovered that the _text_ was equally interesting." He chuckled. "I can't believe the entire Andur mountain range didn't exist a thousand years ago!"

"Mm. That is why Figaro and Kajal are considered sister lands — we belonged to a single Empire a millennium ago."

"This was all just faerie-tale stuff to me as a kid..." Locke gingerly flipped a couple more pages. "Bet I could find some real treasures around the sites of these ancient castles."

"Don't doubt that countless others have already had the same idea... I'd imagine one would have to dig very deep to find anything of value at this point." Edgar smiled. "But, it would be an intriguing quest — one rarely hears of modern adventurers these days. The competition must be slim."

"That's the way I like it."

Edgar stopped to briefly consider the scene before making his exit: Locke had already made himself at home in the study, engrossed in a stack of old texts that Edgar had certainly not touched in years. To the younger prince, they had been a part of standard schooling; facts and dates to be memorized for the purpose of recitation (and of course, to assimilate later into his working knowledge of contemporary politics) — but to Locke, who likely had not had access to such records in his youth, they opened up new secrets of the world. Observing the sincerity with which Locke took to this wealth of new information, Edgar found himself quite charmed.

"Well... you are welcome to continue your history lessons in my absence. I cannot say when exactly I'll be freed from the tedious shackles of work, but if you have no pressing matters elsewhere... perhaps I will see you later."

Locke glanced up at the ceiling with an air of nonchalance. "You _almost_ sound as if you're hoping I'll still be here when you get back."

"I will certainly be looking for a distraction of some sort by the time this damned meeting is over."

Locke merely waved the back of his hand to shoo Edgar from the room. The king closed the door with laughter in his throat. What had this relationship become? Still, the nagging feeling that he should be more cautious persisted — was it really possible to feel so comfortable around someone so quickly? Was he missing something? Or... was he grossly overthinking things? The curse of his royal standing was that he must ever consider the political outcome of every relationship he fostered, of every sort. He could deal with personal heartache — no one was exempt from that kind of pain — but did he yet have enough proof that Locke was someone to be wholly trusted?

Was it too late to look back now?

Try as he might to handle every situation with diplomacy, there were times, Edgar decided, when he should simply follow his heart.

* * *

And so came his decision — not so much _made_ as it was _revealed_ — as Edgar stormed back into the study, hours later, nearly blinded by exhaustion and fury. The week of Nikean _hell_ was officially over, and there was not a single person he wished to see or speak to the rest of the night, save for —

Locke bolted upright in the chaise-longue, knocking silverware off a barren plate as he groped for an empty glass on the bay windowsill. “Sorry, couldn’t wait…” he said with a lazy smile. “The young lady who brought up dinner was very confused, but she promised she’d have another hot serving ready when you called. Wine?” He held out the now freshly-filled glass, not bothering to stand.

Edgar accepted, but did not drink. With his free hand, he grasped Locke’s falling arm and pulled him to his feet, and they faced each other with sudden sobriety. As Edgar leaned in, Locke grasped his lapels, and their lips met hungrily. Locke’s tongue was sweet with wine. He smelled of spice and incense. Edgar wrapped his arm about his waist and pulled him closer, and in response Locke kissed him ever more fervently, reaching over his shoulders, catching his hair between his fingers.

They shifted their weight and Edgar hesitated momentarily to slide the glass of wine onto a side table before diving back in, pushing Locke up against the concrete column in his eagerness. Locke laughed softly as he took the sides of Edgar’s face into his hands. Edgar sucked at his bottom lip before pushing his tongue into his mouth. To this, Locke writhed and pressed his hips into Edgar’s, sighing as they parted so that Edgar could move to plant rough kisses down the side of his neck.

Gradually, they eased away from the stone column and Locke stumblingly led them back to the long chair, throwing himself backwards into its faded plush cushions, eyes half lidded.

“How much have you had to drink?” asked Edgar, sly smile apparent even in his voice.

Locke gestured toward the abandoned glass. “Enough that you’re making me self-conscious about it. Come on!”

And so Edgar retrieved it, and quickly drained its contents in the manner of one much younger or less refined. Then he deposited the empty glass onto the table once more and sat down beside the sprawled-out Locke.

“Our meetings are too few and far between,” he said, twisting to face his friend. Locke reached up and took the cascade of Edgar’s ponytail into his hands, and began unfastening the lowest silk knot.

“I don’t know… things are moving all so fast. Not sure I’m ready for a commitment.” The second tie slid from Edgar’s hair.

Edgar’s lids fluttered as he rolled his eyes. “I have a proposition that’s not entirely personal,” he explained, running a thumb over Locke’s lower lip. Locke dipped his chin and gave his thumb a gentle bite.

“Of course you would try to talk business at a time like this…”

With a last tug of the fine ribbon, Edgar’s hair dropped like a golden curtain over his shoulder, and Locke smiled at the result. Edgar dipped low to lightly kiss the corners of his lips.

“I don’t know why, but I trust you,” he said as he pulled back, voice low and husky. “I want you to be my confidant. My eyes and ears in the world. I want you to go and wander, and tell me what you see and hear. I want you to keep bringing me stories.” He kissed Locke again, slowly, gracefully. Locke wrapped his arms around him and guided him down, so that Edgar stretched out along the length of the chaise-longue, half atop him.

“A king cannot see the world as it truly is. I want you to keep me grounded. Realistic.”

Locke combed his fingers through the side of Edgar’s hair, fine but feather-soft.

“And what’s in it for me?”

Edgar caught one of the many silver rings adorning Locke’s ears between his teeth and gave it a little tug. “I want _you_ to answer that,” he nearly whispered, and he felt Locke shiver beneath him. “Why are you here tonight? What _are_ you getting out of this?”

Edgar looked him in the eyes, but they were too close for his vision to focus clearly. Locke’s expression at that moment was indiscernible. And as the night drew on — heated, ecstatic, awash in formless shapes and wordless sounds — he never did give a verbal response.

But the next morning, as the first rays of the desert sun crept across stone and silk and into lilting, sleepy eyes, Locke was still there, beside him. Edgar lied still to listen to the quiet that blanketed them — and in the languid rhythm of breath and pulse, he found, at last, all questions brilliantly answered.


End file.
